the tears behind the monster's mask
by A Wish On the Moon
Summary: ("… If I watch long enough, will I become just like them?..."). The trickster god has always had his reasons, birthed from the insecurities and love he has always held close. Is it so strange, then, that he's fallen, for nothing more than to let the Sun rise? Tales of Asgard, Thor, and The Avengers (2012). Time-Travel. Introspection. Multi-Chapter.


**Disclaimer**: I lay no claim to any licensed characters or intellectual properties that were used in the making of this work.

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><p><strong>descent into darkness -i-<strong>

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><p><em>"… <em>_If I watch long enough, will I become just like them?..."_

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><p>Loki has always known that he is the more mischievous of Odin's sons, the one whom uses <em>tricks<em> and _sorcery_ to _deceive_, rather than honor and strength to _fight_. He's always known that he picks his battles for fun, and fights them dirty, that he —

He watches the blessed water swirl and shape itself beneath the guidance of his hand, stares blankly at the snake as it dances, entrances, before — it lunges for his throat, and he merely breathes, freezing the cobra in mid-jump.

It shatters like glass.

He lets his hand fall back to the stone armrest, and lets the frost seep into his bones, even as the rivers of Múspellsheimr race through his veins. The bitter taste of ash on his tongue will not leave his mouth, and darkness permeates the very air he breathes.

Indeed, he knows why this is so, and cannot stop _thinking_ about what he has _done_, whom he has _killed_, how badly he has _failed…_

"Loki!"

Light floods the room, and the shadows clawing at his mind are kept at bay by the presence of his brother coming towards him, but — he spares Thor nary a glance. He has no right to seek solace in his brother, no right to let him hold him and just cry, no right — to anything he once had, before.

It is, after all, _his_ fault — and _his_ alone! — that Algrim is dead.

Thor smiles, perhaps, as fondly as Loki remembers the man — _no, still a boy_ — always had when he had found his younger brother hiding from Asgard's eyes. Loki knows that those times have long since passed, but —

He wants it back, all of it — all the happiness and innocence and naiveté they'd both possessed, _before _Thor had chosen to travel to Jötunheimr for the Sword of Elderstahd, _before_ his brother had murdered those Frost Giants, before the eldest son of Odin had understood enough to chase after that wench Sif, _before _— back when everything had been close and safe with Thor, back when _he_ had mattered.

"You've been hiding in this temple long enough," he says, and Loki knows what Thor is doing, has known from the moment Loki had been left behind with Father, with nothing but the wounded and the ashes and the nothingness to keep him company as he had let himself go.

He grounds the flinch beneath his skin, and stares resolutely away from his brother. He knows that Thor has every_ right_, every_ entitlement_, every _justification_ to hold him in contempt, and yet the man _insists_ on keeping up the charade of their close ties.

"I'm not hiding," Loki remarks, though he _is_, but, — "I like it here."

And he does, he does, _hedoeshedoeshedoes_ — but. That's not why he is here, nor why Thor visits. His brother may not be very perceptive, but even Thor understands things like _pain_ and _guilt_ and _remorse_, — even if he'd rather be blind and run _away_ from those suffering under such emotions.

Despite this, the fact that Thor has come looking for Loki, — even as he shrouds himself within the Enchantress's Tower of Seid, hiding from the Nine Realms, — it isn't very surprising. After all, Thor _loves_ his little brother, even if he may not show it.

But. Loki has broken those ties, and — perhaps even broken his brother, as well. Moreover, he has finally, _finally _taken a life away, and — he can't ever let Thor know that he _doesn't_ regret it, _he doesn't_, — but.

"I know you lament your actions, but you did what you thought was right to save us."

He can't get the screams or the flames or the sheer guilt weighing him down out of his mind, and — the fire of Surtr _burns_, hot and angry and _hungry_ for battle, desperate and _thirsting_ for blood, and — Loki feels as if the spirit of Surtr, himself, has taken residence in his hands, and wishes desperately for his magic to be free of the taint.

_The darkness he had felt…_

Loki feels his lips moving as he forms the words, and his ears hear the steady lilt and tense quiet of his voice as he tells him, "No, I sought vengeance." He sees him smiling indulgently, about to say — before his brother can twist the words and change his mind, Loki continues, "Thor, I am convinced that, in Algrim's place, I would have acted no differently."

It's harsher, more inflected, and — only _he_ can hear the subtle nuances in his tone, the whispered power that Amora had taught him so very long ago — or so it seemed to him, as the days passed in a rush of ice and snow and strength _singing_ through the winds.

He never wants any of it to have been real, because he is afraid — _so very afraid_ — and he can never, _ever_ tell Thor, lest he leave him even further behind. He'd seen the confusion and betrayal in his father's eyes, and knew that even _he_ had recognized him for the monster he truly was.

The Dark Elf had not been the only one, and Loki felt the urge to laugh and cry and relish in the hypocrisy of only a week before. He felt the air around him react to his mood, saw the subtle shift of pandemonium, and —

Loki quashed everything back down to his core, kept his face blank and his muscles taut, and his glare hardened. The anger was directed at himself, his own inability to control his emotions, and — and perhaps even at Thor, for leaving him there, for starting that war in order to keep Surtr's sword, for — for _ever_ wanting to be a man and choosing the quest that had ultimately left everything Loki had known about himself in ruin.

"Who of us knows what we're capable of when family is threatened?"

He knew. He _knew_ what he was capable of, given the chance, _knew_ what he could do if he ever lost control like that _again_, _knew_ that he was far too attached to ever become a great sorcerer, _knew_ that his mischief and indulgence in his older brother's whims would lead to ruin.

The wench had said as much, that he wasn't doing Thor any _favors_. Oh, how right she had been.

"Hopefully, we'll never again be faced with such choices."

_Oh, but we _will_, Brother. And _then_ what are we to do?_

"I am going to see Father." Loki senses the hesitance in the pause, the unsurety of how he stands in the eyes of his brother.

Loki ignores him as best he can.

"… Will you join me?"

The hope is tangible, but that is because Loki can read the crystals of frost in front of him. Thor is simply extending a hand of courtesy, — a requirement, he's sure, of being the heir to the Throne. Loki knows that Thor does not care for him, not anymore, and —

He still answers, because he could never refuse his elder brother, and he's not sure what could happen if he ever chose _not_ to.

"I will."

It's a lie, one of the few he will ever tell, but it leaves a foul poison on his lips, and he amends the statement. "… Later," he promises, — a half-truth that he's twisted out of a sentimental desire to see Thor at ease.

He receives no answer, and Loki refrains himself from looking up to watch Thor as he sighs, turns around, and walks away, out the door he came in from.

The shadows snake their tendrils back towards where he sits, and he listens as the echoing footsteps become quieter and quieter, strong boots clapping against the stone floor, — the ice, — the snow, — before being lost to the blizzard outside his glass castle walls.

Loki shifts, and lets the beginnings of his unshed tears drip, drip, drip, and concentrates on his magic, his sorcery, — his trickery. His eyes burn and his heart aches and he feels nauseous with the strings of power — _no, guilt —_ as they merge with his thoughts.

It's all he has left, now.


End file.
